My mother is lighting candles, I am screaming. She smooths goose oil into my chest as I purple with pneumonia. Poor Fredo, they whisper, and my father watches from the corner. He covers his face. My father asks me to stop at the market. He is selecting fruit, holding it to his lips when the guns ignite. Thrown back he staggers to the curb. I am crawling toward him as the black car retreats. He is bleeding; oranges tumble from his coat. I sit on the curb and cover my face, crying, Papa — And the Angel departed from me.